


between the walls of your mind (is a terrible place to be)

by weneedtotalkaboutsherlock (Paradoxe1914)



Series: between the walls of your mind [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Epistolary, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Hurt/Comfort, John's POV, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, PTSD John, Psychological Trauma, Sherlock Holmes Takes Care of John Watson, Sherlock's POV, Suicide mention, Torture, rape mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-11-12 21:01:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11170002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paradoxe1914/pseuds/weneedtotalkaboutsherlock
Summary: John wakes up in a room he knows nothing about, tied to a chair with only a pen in his hand. Nothing is as it seems as John has to fight against an invisible torturer, so he instinctively starts addressing his letters to Sherlock. Truth is John is farther away than he ever imagined.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please check out the tags for warnings or ask me about details if you're not sure about reading this story.  
> Please note that I'm not a native English speaker, so sorry for any mistakes you'll find in there! I was also experimenting with a new style (at least for the epistolary parts).  
> This will be a series and the second part will be only partly epistolary. In the first part, the first chapter focusses on John's POV, the second one on Sherlock's, and the third one is a mix of the two. I will spread the updates daily, so you'll have three chapters over three days. Enjoy!

**January 12th**

 

            Sherlock

???????????????????????????

bloody

            hell

where am I?

 

 

**January 13th**

 

I don’t know what happened. I really don’t. Everything was fine one minute, and then it all went to hell.

I don’t know where I am.

At this point you’d probably tell me to concentrate and look around with that sarcastic tone of yours – I can nearly hear it. So, there it is:

The walls are grey. Stone? Concrete? Something like that. There’s nothing else.

I’m sitting on a chair. A wooden chair. There’s a desk too, in front of me. In my hand there’s a pen – I don’t remember picking it up but then again I thought about you and I started writing this letter as if it was the most instinctive thing to do. ( ~~not even writing to her first~~ ) There are some envelopes on the desk too – I didn’t see them before. I guess it makes sense? Or maybe not. If you were here you’d deduce this room in five seconds. I’m sure you would, I’ve seen you do it before. And I would tell you how bloody fantastic that is, you’d smile and keep showing off in front of the whole Yard.

Fuck

I can’t really feel my fingers now

I guess I’m done with this one

I hope you get this soon because I could use some help here

 

 

**January 14 th**

 

Two days and I still don’t know where I am. Seriously, am I dead?

Probably not.

It doesn’t feel quite like myself either. From time to time it hurts (my leg, my arm, my stomach, my bloody shoulder). But then I look down and I’m still here, writing to you.

 

 

**January 15 th**

 

Okay now I’m pretty sure I’ve been kidnapped. Please come and get me, Sherlock?

There’s no door here, no window. I don’t have a bloody clue about where I could be. There’s always more ink and paper, so I keep writing, but I’m sure that they’re not sending these letters to you. Why would they?

But I hope they are.

I know, I know, right now you would say that I’m an idiot for believing that, but it’s pretty much the only thing I have left to believe in at this point.

 

 

**January 16 th**

 

it hurts

it fucking hurts, Sherlock

sometimes the voice – they… come. And I know it will hurt. It’s not the first time I’ve been kidnapped but it’s definitely the first time I’ve been tortured. Why can’t I see them? Do they come at night before leaving me in this room with all the paper and the letters they’re not sending? I’m sitting here all day long writing and writing until my hand hurts and everything else does too.

it hurts

it hurts

it hurts

it fucking hurts

please

 

 

**January 18 th**

 

I don’t know how many days I was asleep. One? Two? Three? A whole week? All my muscles are sore and it still hurts like hell. Why are they doing this to me? Why can’t you find out where I am and come and get me? Are you not clever enough? Or don’t you care?

 

 

**January 19 th**

 

I think that they are cutting my skin now.

please hurry

no

don’t

it’s your fault

they are obviously doing this to me because of you. they want to get you through me. it’s not working, of course it’s not, you don’t care.

i hate this

i hate you

i hate you

i hate you

i hate you

do you fucking hear me Sherlock??

            I FUCKING HATE YOU

i hate everything about you

i hate the way you speak, the way you insult me, the way you don’t get anything done, i hate it that you always forget the milk, i hate your fucking face and your fucking smile and

your fucking curls and i hate your lips i hate them i hate them i hate them i hate them

 

i hate you

 

 

**January 20 th**

 

Are they sending these to you? Good. I hate you. I think you’d want to know. And since we’re on that subject, I should add that I hate Bill from the high school’s rugby team and I hate all the guys from Afghanistan and I hate Sholto and I fucking hate my dad. For all he did to me. I fucking hate him and I know at the same time that it’s wrong but I still do and I’m not going to change. You know why? Because when he looked at me, he never saw me. Bill, the guys, Sholto – they all saw me, and I hate them for that.

but I hate you most of them all

 

 

**January 21 st**

 

Sometimes I hear her voice. I wish I wouldn’t. I hear it when they come to hurt me. And I don’t hate her. Why don’t I hate her? I can’t forgive myself.

bloody hell

Sherlock, I hate you

but her…

I _despise_

 

**January 22 nd**

 

Why do I hear her voice when they come? Why can’t I hear yours? Your beautiful low voice that I hate i hate it i hate it i hate it i hate it

I’m still tied to this chair and I don’t know why I keep writing but there’s nothing else to do around here, and I know you won’t get these letters and I hate it

Sherlock

She’s coming

I can hear her voice

hurry

hurry

please

it hurts it hurts it hurts it

 

 

**January 23 rd**

 

They’re gone for now and I have to pass the time somehow so “ _hello again”_.

You know (you probably do) that when I was in the army they taught us how to react under torture. The thing is that I’m not even sure I’m being tortured right now. Yes, everything hurts as hell and I can hear their voices in the distance but I never see them, Sherlock. Never. And when I look down and I’m perfectly fine on my chair in front of my desk.

Sometimes I can taste blood and dirt in my mouth. Just like in Afghanistan. It has this metallic taste, blood, doesn’t it? It reminds me of the guys there. Not only about the blood, but also how _they_ tasted. I wonder

no

i shouldn’t

i really shouldn’t

 

they’re back

 

 

**January 24 th**

 

It’s her. Sherlock, oh God, it’s her. She’s here. She whispered into my ear, I know she did. Christ, Sherlock, I let her shoot you. And now she’s here. Why did I let her do this to you? To _us_? I thought I was imagining her voice, but she’s actually here, and she’s killing me slowly. It’s a double-edged execution.

 

 

**January 25 th**

 

I think I know why I’m here. I don’t know how long I’ll be stuck in this room, though. Could you hurry please? I know you’ll never see these letters but please hurry. And when you’ll come and get me I’ll

 

 

**January 26 th**

 

I fucking hate my dad. When I reflect about this whole situation it always comes back to him. Things could have been… simpler without him, you know? I’m a doctor and a soldier but between Harry and I, I’m the coward. All my bloody life I’ve been a coward. Now I can’t even figure how to get out of this and I’m fucking useless. Shit. shit shit shit shit shit shit shit

I know why I’m here

(i know i know i always did but i’m scared)

please come and get me

please please please please

 

 

**January 29 th **

 

I’ve been asleep for three days now. A blow to my head, probably, I still feel dizzy from it. She was talking to me all that time.

You know, today is the 29th.

Her silly voice told me that. And I fucking smiled. She beat me, again and again and again and I don’t have the strength to stay awake right now but I need to finish this letter before I can sleep again.

Sherlock, it’s the 29th today. It makes me happy and sad at the same time – I’m afraid that the tears will ruin the paper but they don’t even fall on it. Why would they? I cry and I’m not even crying. I’m here, locked away, my left hand tied to this pen and I write and I can’t stop.

If you come and get me, Sherlock (please do, please please please), I’ll have to ask you something.

Because today’s the 29th, Sherlock, and you know what that means.

I’m going to ask you and I’m hoping your answer will be different from the first time.

I hope you’ll say yes.

 

 

**January 30 th**

 

She’s coming. Please say yes. Please, please, please, please. And I’ll, I’ll

 

 

**January 31 st**

 

I’ll kiss your bloody gorgeous lips and I’ll put my hand in your hair and I’ll bloody love it

you know why?

because i hate you

i really do

 

**February 2 nd **

 

I’m laughing right now. It’s so stupid. This is so stupid. I could have done what they told me in training. I could have followed the one-hundred-and-one-steps-to-resist-torture-or-whatever-that-was-again. But I don’t think they want anything from me. They only want to hurt me. So, of course, I locked myself in here, just like you do sometimes when you’re thinking too much.

These letters will never get to you Sherlock. They won’t. I don’t see them but I’m sure they’re stacked under the desk or behind me. It doesn’t matter. I’m writing to you but in fact I’m all alone in my head in this blood mind palace or whatever you call it. The first thing I’ve done to cope with all of this was to seal myself in this room, between these four grey walls and this paper that appears as quickly as I write on it. Those letters… they will never get to you, Sherlock. I just hope you don’t need them to… know.

 

 

**February 3 rd**

 

This is a very small room. Does it mean that I’m an idiot? Probably. That’s what you would say. Isn’t your mind like a… palace? Why is mine this shithole? Why aren’t you here? Why can’t I imagine you, here, right now, with me? If this is my mind why can’t I make up a version of you? The waiting would be less painful.

Why I can hear her but I can’t hear you?

She’s already cutting my flesh

but this

this

searching for you

for your voice, your eyes

 _this_ is torture

it hurts

hurts

hurts

hurts

HURTS

i fucking hate you

 

 

**February 5 th**

 

Now, when she comes around, I try to imagine your face. If I think hard enough, I can see your eyes, looking at me. I think of your body too. Every inch of it. How soft is your skin? I really would like to find out.

Would you let me, though?

Mine is broken and scarred for life, now. I don’t think you’d like it. I don’t think you’d want me that way. If you ever did.

And when I think about you it happens sometimes. I’m sorry. It does, I can’t stop it. And every time she beats me harder and harder and I think she wants me to hate myself for it. She’s like my father – wrong. I never will. Not that.

 

 

**February 6 th**

 

hell

 

 

**February 7 th**

 

i think this is goodbye, dear

            i

 

 

**February 8 th**

 

I died. At last I don’t feel pain anymore. I don’t really believe in heaven but then I can here your voice and I know I’m there.

Oh, I can hear it again. It’s coming closer. What is it saying?

Oh God. That’s my name.

Sherlock.

I’m not dead. I AM NOT DEAD.

Can you hear me?

Can you?

Please say that you can.

I’m here! Look at me, I’m here! There’s no door, no window, but I hear you, you’re close and I know you’ll find a way to get me out of here. Away from her.

You’ve come. You’ve come. I can’t believe it. I want to laugh (and cry) but my face doesn’t move. Why? Why can’t I move?

Oh Christ, am I naked? I probably am. Why do you have to see me that way… the first time?

Oh you’ve come

You’re here

 

i hate you

i hate you

i hate you

i hate you

 

why can’t i talk?

i hate you but i want to say three very different words

can i?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going back in time, this is Sherlock's writing during the time John went missing.

**Blog draft, saved [January 15 th 15:23]**

 

            John?

Where are you? You’re gone, she’s gone, where are you?

???

Lestrade is back with no news. He said I shouldn’t post this on your blog and he’s probably right, since we don’t want to give away the fact that we started searching for you. There was something about “alarming family and friends” too but I’ve already deleted that nonsense. I correctly guessed your password on the first try. It was dead easy. You should change it when you come back. You’re obviously not going to read your drafts, wherever you are, so I really don’t know why I’m writing on here.

Where are you???

 

**Edit [17:08]**

\- Signs of struggle in the bedroom.

\- Lamp on the left (where JW sleeps) is broken.

\- Scratches on the North wall. Consistent with human nails. ~~Approximately~~ the size of JW’s hands (not approximately, _exactly_ your hand size).

 

(Think, Sherlock, _think._ )

 

\- Obvious signs of abduction.

You put up a fight. A good one. Were you drugged? Probably. No more signs of struggle halfway through the house. The drugs would have taken effect three and a half minutes after the injection.

I would know.

Where did they take you? Where is she?

 

 

**Blog draft, saved [January 16 th 11:23]**

 

The detectives on this case are totally useless. I asked Lestrade if I could choose them myself and of course he said no. So there’s this woman who’s cheating on her husband and she cares more about her phone than anything else. How can she concentrate on finding you when half her day is spent on hiding her love affairs?

The man is stoic, never moves and talks so slowly I already fell asleep twice mid-speech. Maybe it’s because his son died when he was two. Would that still bother him, after all this time? You should be here to tell me that, John.

I’m bothe—

 

 

**Blog draft, saved [January 17 th 11:41]**

 

Okay, breaking into this hangar and threatening everybody in there with your handgun wasn’t the brightest idea but it’s still better than sitting here doing _nothing_. All the signs were there. I made all the proper deductions – I was sure I’d find you there.

So apparently I’m on house arrest before I murder somebody, but it doesn’t seem to work since I’d gladly like to kill Mycroft now because it’s all his doing. Why can’t I help?

They are useless - nothing will be done unless I solve it. I really want to solve it, John. Do you believe me? Why can’t I think? Why can’t I, when it matters the most?

(i always thought that if you’d be in danger i’d deduce it in a minute and save you and _kill them_ but instead i’m sitting in 221b and everything is quiet and i hate it)

They’ll never find you without me and time is running out I know it is what if we find you and

 

 

**Blog draft, saved [January 18 th 13:03]**

 

Mrs Hudson forced me to eat today. She made some kind of… pasta? The one you usually like. She said something about me being unreasonable about not eating for days now but John

never on a case

transport

transport

transport

but then I thought it would at least be transport to get me to the place they keep you and I ate and ate and ate and couldn’t stop eating and then I wanted to

 

 

**Blog draft, saved [January 19 th 22:35]**

 

Still no leads.

 

 

**Blog draft, saved [January 20 th 19:29]**

 

Molly:

22h30 – sofa, living-room. 23h – falling asleep (estimating 30min insomnia due to current level of stress and lack of sleep). 5am – bathroom + checking my room.

=> approx. 6hrs to cover as much ground as possible

 

**Edit [23:46]**

Slipping through the window was easier than I thought it would be since Molly didn’t even notice I was gone. She’ll wake up to check on me in five hours but I’ll be nowhere in sight. Just like you.

I’ll be stopping to every place in London you’ve ever been to.

(note : don’t forget to check out abandoned cars, houses, hangars, garages…)

I’ll go back to Baker St. before they’ll phone Mycroft but

one last stop before that

 

 

**Blog draft, saved [January 21 st 18:03]**

 

john john john joh n

where?

think think think think think think

 

**Edit [23:58]**

 

jhn?

is tha treally you?

stay, stay stay don’t go please stay

i want to tell you that i

johb john jon john john john

 

 

**Blog draft, saved [January 23 rd 11:11]**

 

Mycroft found me. He always does. I hate him. He should be searching for you, not for me. He was slow: I made it 27 hours. The network found me this place in East End but now I’m pretty sure it’ll be burned to the ground.

He asked for the list. He always does. It’s boring now. So of course I gave it to him, and he gave it a look and awkwardly enough he… hugged me. He held me and I wanted to push him away but at the same time I wanted him to never stop holding me and I was so scared and he knew and I’m still so scared John I’m really really scared.

It’ll pass. It’s probably the drugs that are still in my system. I’m getting slow, John.

Anyway, he left me at Baker St. with Lestrade (Molly’s turn was over and I assume she won’t be coming back any soon). He stared at me with this look… I don’t want his fucking pity John I want y

 

 

**Blog draft, saved [January 24 th 14:21]**

 

Okay, so Mycroft is letting me on the investigation again if I promise to not leave the flat. As if I _need_ his permission. He should remember that I’m a grown man and not some little child to protect.

Lestrade updated me on what leads they have at this point and John… they’ve got nothing. At. All. They are useless, as I said before. But I’m the most useless of them all.

My deductions and my highly logical thinking always amazed you but I can’t do it now. Why can’t I think? Why?

It matters now and I can’t. What’s wrong with me?

 

 

**Blog draft, saved [January 27 th 05:01]**

 

Lestrade texted me and said he wouldn’t update me if I would not get any sleep. I managed to nap for two hours, and only woke up an hour ago. I dreamed about you. I dreamed you were there in my bed and that everything was fine and that you were mine and you would never leave the room and I woke up and you weren’t there

and that was the real nightmare John.

 

 

**Blog draft, saved [January 29 th 7:48]**

 

…………………………………………………………..

I’ll come and get you, John

            wherever you are

I’m coming.

and when I’ll find you I’ll take you to Angelo’s because you deserve it and you deserve to know that I love you I really do please let me know that you’ve already deduced that because with every passing hour I hate myself more and more.

I should be over there with you.

I should be the one in your place right now.

 

 

**Blog draft, saved [January 30 th 6:18]**

 

Lestrade slept in last night. Of course he would. Of course Mycroft asked him. Usually there’s only Mrs. Hudson or Molly but he guessed the date correctly and so he asked Lestrade. He took your handgun from my nightstand and locked it away in his car. I guess that’s good because if he wouldn’t be here I would have thrown myself out of the window by now.

But he said that we can’t loose focus, that we need to find you.

He’s right. For the one time in his life he’s right. I need to find you. But John what if we find you and

 

then I’ll guess there’s always the window

 

 

**Blog draft, saved [February 4 th 12:22]**

 

Please be out there

Please be strong

You are strong. I know you are so please be strong a little while more, would you do this?

For me?

 

 

**Blog draft, saved [February 6 th 18:03]**

We made some progress. Finally. I started to think. I know we’re on the right track. I’m sure of it. She did a good job, John, but she couldn’t cover all the tracks. She’s good but I’m better. No, actually, I’m shit. I should never have left you with her. Please forgive me?

I won’t.

 

 

**Blog draft, saved [February 7 th 22:42]**

i know now

we’re coming

john

i’m


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is set after Sherlock found John. The POV will be switching.

#CLASSIFIED INFORMATION IN THE FOLLOWING FILE, PROPERTY OF M. H.#

**Transcript, File #25769**

Speaking: Mr. Sherlock Holmes

February 9th

 

# Transcription begins at 2:42AM #

We arrived at 66, Oak rd. at approximately 23:02. The plan was rigorously worked out so nobody would get injured as we could retrieve John Watson in all safety. I first entered the hangar alone at 23:10 and as I had deduced, the person known as Mary ~~Mor~~ Watson came to meet me. She was obviously prepared for this visit, as she had a nine-millimetre handgun in hand. I did not carry any weapons to let her think that she had the upper hand, and I managed to convince her that I was alone.

All right Mycroft, if you want the details of that conversation she said something about me wanting to find John and therefore throwing myself in harm’s way in an act of desperation.

Are you keeping up?… Good, this bit is important and I won't be saying it twice. She confessed to me that Mary Morstan (and Watson) had always been a false identity she stole from a stillborn child and that in reality she was – as I suspected – Stephanie Moran.

Yes, that’s right, Moriarty’s right hand man – or woman, in this case – and one of the snipers present at the pool. Of course you know what I’m talking about Mycroft, stop asking for details. I had to keep her talking for the police to take their position, so in that time Stephanie Moran revealed that she had enough of Moriarty and took control of his criminal web after his suicide on Bart’s roof.

She always knew there was a chance that I would return to “life”, and that is why she found John Watson, started going out and finally married him – mostly because she wanted revenge after I broke down her international network when I was away.

She admitted to kidnapping John, mostly because her plan was not entirely working out and she wanted to pressure me into falling in her trap before killing me. She was revealing this information in the clear mindset that I would not make it out of the hangar alive. She added that John Watson had also received what he deserved during that time, for having married someone he did not love. She said he was maintained alive but barely, continuing Moriarty’s mission to “burn the heart out of me”.

 

[Interruption in transcript 2:53-2:55]

 

She finished by telling me that “we would meet in hell” before raising her gun. We had a sniper placed at the back of her head. Unfortunately, her death was quick and painless. She didn’t have the time to pull the trigger.

As soon as she was killed, the police entered the building. I lost track of what happened to the people present since I mainly focused on retrieving John Watson back to the ambulance. We made it around 11:30 yesterday, and at 11:50 we arrived at Bart's.

Is it done now? Can I go back or you need me to recount every other second of the night?

 

# End of transcript #

 

* * *

 

 

 **February 9 th** [early morning, written by Sherlock in one of John’s empty notebooks, with smears of blood and tear drops on the first page]

 

\- Open fracture of the right femoral bone with early signs of infection

\- Stable fracture of the left collarbone, above gunshot wound

\- Probable comminute fracture of the left hand

\- Stable fractures of ribs #5-6-7 (right side)

\- Cuts: legs, arms, torso, shoulder ( _kitchen knife?_ )

\- Bruising: w/ cuts, regular bruising on back ( _bat?_ ), feet and face (right eye swollen), swollen lips (some bruises did probably fade before rescue)

\- Marks around the wrists and ankles consistent w/ rope found at the scene

\- Three head bumps

\- Signs of concussion? (note : ask Dc.)

\- ~~Neuronal consquences??? (Probability : High)~~

 

~~please tell me they didn’t~~

~~(you’re clear thank god thank thank thank you thank you)~~

 

**[approx. 11:00]**

 

They said I should keep writing. A woman came by and asked me some questions, but I don’t quite remember what I said. Frankly I’d say that I’m not really conscious about anything I’m doing. There was some talking about dissociation and shock and it made me think about that time Lestrade gave me that shock blanket on the first night.

(I say first night and you know what I’m talking about – it was in a way the First of everything, that day.)

I don’t know why I’m writing that, but they said that it would help. And unconsciously – like pretty much anything I’ve done in the past few hours – I’ve started writing to you. I took one of your notebooks by the way, I’m sure you won’t mind, you have thousands of these lying around the flat and so I figured you’d never use this one.

Anyway, they told me to write, I could lay out in here the facts of this investigation to help me think more clearly but the woman asked me to specifically write about what I’m feeling. Useless. No, not useless – _fucking_ useless. I feel nothing. There is nothing to feel.

At least when I had to find you I had something to do. Now I’m just sitting there, waiting, and it feels like my thoughts are on hold. Like my hole body is on hold. Transport. I’ve got transport and I’m not going anywhere, so why bother? There’s nothing to feel.

Yet somehow the absence is revealing.

 

**[approx. 18:15]**

 

The nurses brought you back three hours ago from surgery. They repaired your leg and your left hand but you’ll still have to wear casts for some weeks. The doctors did not want to say much more but I ~~stole~~ looked at your patient file while they were gone.

They can’t do anything about the ribs and the concussion, but they patched up all the wounds. Also, there’s no serious nervous damage so you’ll be fi

How can I say _that_? You’ll never be fine. I’ll never be fine. Not after all of this.

 

[ **approx. 19:02** ]

 

I’m back, now. Sorry about that. I think I looked at you for too long and the place went spinning around my head. I barely got the time to make it to the bathroom.

I do not quite understand the biological need of an endorphin release after the act of vomiting but it definitely made a mess of me as I was

(“feeling”)

crying and laughing at the same time.

Mycroft came in. He just stood there, at the door. I told him that I could not do this. I'm not something I'm very proud of, John, but you need to know that there was that moment. Everything I was seeing in that room was the consequence of my inability to be a good detective. I couldn’t look at you because everything was my fault. They should have taken me instead. _They should have_. It’s something I’ll regret for the rest of my life.

Then

He gave me the list back

You know (actually, you don’t), it was the list I wrote when you were away and I relapsed? Well, he handed it back to me as I was still sitting on the floor. He would never give me back the list, John, _never_. And I did not want to look at it because I didn’t even remember what I took that night and I didn’t want to add it to the pile of things I had to feel guilty about.

But then, he asked me again to look at it. So I did.

And now I’m back here, I’m by your side as you’re still sleeping peacefully under the wonderful spell of morphine and I promise you John I’m never leaving you again, I will never never never do that. I won’t you let you out of my sight ever again.

I know I’m running out of promises but this one is the only one I ever truly meant.

I _promise_.

 

**[Between the next two pages of the notebook: a scrambled piece of paper now neatly folded in half. It reads:]**

 

john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john john

 

**[On the back:]**

 

                       i love you

 

**Sherlock's notebook, February 10 th**

 

Mycroft arranged a deal for me so I could stay in your room past visiting hours. Maybe he’s not so useless after all. My part of the deal was to eat and sleep properly. He thinks I lost ten pounds during the last week but I’m inclined to say eight and a half. He’s clearly compensating for the weight he gained himself (three and a half, if you want to know).

I also have to keep writing, but it doesn’t help. How it is supposed to help? It helped you, but I don’t have anything to write about. Nothing is happening: it’s like as if the world was turning so fast that it suddenly stopped altogether. I’m looking at you and you’re sleeping and not moving for days now and please come back come back to me.

 

* * *

**John's letter, February 12 th**

 

How long have I been sleeping? I can hear the heart monitor and the nurses come and go. So why am I still here, in this room, writing to you? Am I not fucking done with that now that you’re here?

Please God, let me see your face. At least now I can hear your voice. Please talk to me. Please please please please

This is not hell

This is worse

This is hell without you

 

* * *

 

 

**Sherlock's notebook, February 12 th**

 

You had some kind of nightmare. Not _some kind_. I know exactly what nightmare you had. You were moving and mumbling but I couldn’t get what you were saying. It probably didn’t make any sense anyway. The heart monitor was beeping faster and faster.

I know that look. I’ve seen it far more often that I would like to.

You were… _suffering_.

I really didn’t think it through but I got on the bed with you and held your hand. Your pulse eventually slowed down and you stopped moving. I thought it would make an excellent scientific study but again I wouldn’t know how to explain it.

So I just lay there with you and you were so peaceful for that moment and I synchronized our breaths and oh John _I missed you so much_.

 

* * *

 

 

**John's letter, February 13 th**

 

I woke up in the room like I always do but this time was quite different. Just like I knew that they were beating me up when I was… there… I know that you’re close to me right now. Did you climb in my hospital bed? Christ Sherlock, people are going to talk.

Fuck this. Let them.

I want you close to me. I can feel your hair against my head. Is that your hand in mine? Your skin is so soft. Why can’t I move? I would like to grab your hand and kiss it and kiss it until you’d wake up and then I’d kiss you and kiss you again and again and

why can’t I move, why can’t I talk?

oh no

oh no

please don’t move away from me

why can’t i scream?

bloody hell Sherlock, come back here, I want you to

I want you to

i want you

 

* * *

 

 

**Sherlock's notebook, February 14 th**

 

Mycroft was here. For some reason I did not bother to deduce. I can do that, now, apparently. 

He talked to the doctors since I'm not talking much around here. They said your condition is not due by nervous damage. It’s trauma. Is that better or worse? I don’t even know. I tried looking it up on my phone but I remember it died just a few hours after we got to the hospital. They said it would take some time for a complete recovery – I could feel how the doctor wanted to add that stupid “if he ever does” at the end of his sentence.

I swear I wanted to kill him.

I’m willing to give you time, John

(you gave me two years)

but you have to come back. Please. Please.

 _Please_.

 

* * *

 

 

**John's letter, February 14 th**

You should be kinder to Mycroft. He really cares about you, you know? Anyway, he can always become handy – if I’m not mistaken you’re nearly living in my hospital room now and I’m pretty sure he arranged that.

I also think he saw you sleeping in my bed, I couldn’t see who it was but I definitely heard his umbrella clicking on the floor as he got away. He’ll get the idea, you know. But maybe that’s what you want.

Isn’t it?

I thought it would be over by now, that I would be free from this room and that we would go back to Baker St. and I would finally say what I always meant to say. I thought you’d make it all go away. But I’m still stuck here, and I know it’s in my head but I can’t get away. I don’t know why. Since this is my “mind palace” and I can’t see anything, I guess I’ll just put this image on the wall.

Here it is: you and me, in the hospital bed. _Together_. Hey, I do remember how you look like. Good. Wait a moment, I'm putting this on the wall so I can have a little souvenir of the moment. Please stay close. Please let other people get _the idea_. Please let it be something you want because if it’s not I’m really not sure why I’m enduring this room any longer.

 

 

**John's letter, February 15 th**

 

Are we back home, Sherlock? And by that I mean Baker St. not the place I used to rent before. Seventeen steps, that’s right, it’s Baker St. You’re really strong. I never thought you could carry me over the stairs. And after that there are still the stairs to my room. But you know we don’t need it, Sherlock, don’t you?

Oh, hello Mrs. Hudson. Sorry, I can’t talk, for some reason? Ask her, Sherlock. Ask her about the room upstairs we won’t need. You won’t have to carry me over there every night we could use your roo—

Never mind.

 

* * *

 

 

**Sherlock's notebook, February 15 th**

 

They said we could leave since you were stable enough, but that we have to come back for wound disinfection and weekly updates. Like that’s _ever_ going to happen. We can finally leave this hell and go home. If I need help I’ll call Molly and I swear we won’t have to come back here. Simple as that. They never really think, do they?

We got back home around 19:00 and I carried you upstairs. They suggested to install a ramp for the wheelchair but we won’t need it since you’ll be walking again pretty soon.

I think you like being back home. I put you in your old chair and Mrs. Hudson came to say hello. She even hugged you and said that we would look after you. I had to make her leave though because she was starting to cry. Why can’t people control themselves a little?

Anyway. On other news time is making sense again. When you were… away… all dates melted together but now it went back to normal. I know where I am. Good.

Since your bandages were clean I took you upstairs (around 22:00) to put you in bed. It was a long time since you slept in there. I watched you for a moment.

We’re at 221b John, we’re home. Finally.

 

[Scribbled at the bottom of the page:]

 

23:00 – updated MH and GL on current situation (why was GL at MH’s house? Jordan-Montgomery case?)

23:15 – called Molly, she said she could come around to help change bandages. (note: don’t call after 22:30)

23:46 – Mrs. Hudson made tea, said she could not sleep. She started talking so I picked up my violin but couldn’t play.

00:24 – Mrs. Hudson finally went to sleep.

02:07 – can’t sleep.

03:23 – what if they come and take you again? I can’t sleep. I have to stay awake. Stay awake.

4:… - stay

 

 

**Sherlock's notebook, February 16 th **

 

6:00 – shit shit shit shit shit was I sleeping?

6:05 – checked on JW, still sleeping. (note: calm down he’s fine he’s there he’s still there he’s fine)

6:17 – Mrs Hudson is still asleep so I made tea.

6:24 – tried reading a book, didn’t work.

9:49 – how long have I been in my mind palace? Checked on JW, he woke up but didn’t move from the bed.

10:15/11:20 – breakfast. No reaction from JW. (this is harder than I thought it would be you’re really not making things easier)

11:30 – red _The Beekeper’s Handbook_ aloud. JW seemed to… enjoy it? (john please tell me if you liked it I don’t know I look at you and I don’t know I can’t even deduce it it’s-)

13:30/14:45 – lunch (note: cover JW with towel next time to avoid getting food on his jumper + don't forget to add it to laundry bag)

15:30 – Molly came in for bandage change. Hated it. She looked pitiful. Now I know how to do it so she doesn’t have to come back.

19:30/19:45 – dinner. JW seemed tired. I did not insist. Put crap telly on.

21:57 – put JW to bed.

23:24 – Mrs. Hudson checked on me. Said that I should go to sleep.

 

I didn’t.

 

 

**Sherlock's notebook, February 17 th **

 

9:25 – JW woke up. I’ve been watching him all night.

10:00 – finished breakfast (it was easier this time / note: use deeper spoon).

11:38 – GL came by. I said that I did not want to take any case at the moment. He left a file. He talked for a moment ~~with~~ to JW. He said he had some kind of announcement to make when we would feel better. I don’t care.

(We?)

13:00 – lunch. Mrs. Hudson cooked because she said that I needed a break (do I? there’s no break to take from anything why would she sa) but I made her leave when it was time to eat. ( ~~I don’t want her to see you like~~ )

15:15 – bath time. JW didn’t seem to notice anything. He needed to be shaved and I was afraid that I would cut him. I managed not to.

18:45 – dinner.

19:30/22:00 – watched a Bond movie. No reaction from JW. Held him on the sofa. (note: do that more often)

22:15 – put JW to sleep.

 

 

**Sherlock's notebook, February 18 th**

 

Last night I red every website about trauma I could find. We had some books about it too, apparently (are these yours?). Found no information on how long it would take for the subject to recover any sense of reality. Didn’t they do any studies on that???

 

To check out at the library:

\- _The psychology of trauma: the long road to recovery_ , Dr. Fern

\- _~~The time I was tortured and survived: the detailed story~~_ ~~, W. Williams~~

\- _Dr. Everell’s notes on recovering from mental trauma_ , Dr. Everell

\- _How to care for the long-term disabled, a handbook_ , Dr. Smith

 

 

**Sherlock's notebook, February 19 th**

 

8:36 – ~~JW~~ you woke up.

9:00/9:55 – breakfast.

 

Some book said it would be good to take you outside so I did. We went to the park.

I hated it.

I hated the looks all these people gave you, how they stared at the wheelchair and at your face and I wanted them to go away, to stop looking as if there was something _wrong_ with you. I know that look John I’ve received that look but you can’t you just can’t there’s nothing wrong with you please tell me that there’s nothing wrong with y

 

* * *

 

**John's letter, February 20 th**

 

Where are you, bloody moron?

I know I can’t talk nor move nor do anything else but please don’t loose patience with me. I’m trying. I’m writing. DON’T YOU SEE I’M WRITING? I’M WRITING TO YOU, FOR YOU, ABOUT US PLEASE PLEASE LISTEN

Can’t you deduce that? Do you really know anything about me at all? I’m stronger than you think I am, Sherlock, I’m not many things but I think I’m that.

And do you know about how I feel? How I always felt?

Who I really am?

 

* * *

 

 

**Sherlock's notebook, February 20 th**

 

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

How do I repair a wheelchair?

My foot hurts.

Shit.

Please tell me you didn’t hear that. Please tell me you didn’t wake up. It means nothing. I swear. It’s only because of the lack of sleep or whatever – it didn’t mean anything.

Shit shit shit shit.

I don’t know how to put this back together please don’t tell me I have to call Mycroft he’ll ask questions.

Mind palace? That’s what you’d say. I’ll give it a try.

 

(note: taking it out on the wheelchair isn’t the brightest idea, Sherlock)

(note #2: ~~next time~~ , don’t wait until it’s too late to say how you _feel_ )

 

* * *

 

**John's letter, February 21 st**

 

I have to say that your cooking skills are getting better. Although I’m not fan of the whole “mashed” diet. Mashed potatoes. Mashed peas. Mashed carrots. And I hope you’re not getting it everywhere on my clothes.

But please talk to me. I really enjoy it, even if it is only to tell me about the weather or the cases you’re not taking or how stupid Greg is – and yes, you’re still getting his name wrong.

Here (click) and I add another picture to the wall.

Okay, I know it’s tough, Sherlock, it’s tough for me too. Please believe me. Please look in my eyes and see that I’m waving to you from that little room from where I write. Please don’t be done with me. Please never be done with me.

 

* * *

 

 

**Sherlock's notebook, February 21 st**

 

9:00 – okay, you woke up and you apparently didn’t notice anything wrong with the wheelchair. Good. Maybe next time we go out we’ll buy another one. A more comfortable one that actually fits through the doors so I don’t have to carry you each time (or maybe not because I like carrying you it’s always a good excuse to-). This new wheelchair could be more of a permanent solution.

Today I mostly talked about Greg’s case-file he left the other day. I had a look at it. Very boring, actually, but I thought you’d like to hear the deductions so I did them anyway. I even got Greg’s name wrong a couple of times so you would correct me but you didn’t seem to notice (why don’t you? this is killing me). But that’s okay – you can take your time. I’m here for you.

19:30/20:30: dinner. I’m slowly getting the hang of this. (note: add mash peas and carrots to favourite food)

 

* * *

 

 

**John's letter, February 22 nd**

 

The water is hot. No, no, Sherlock, not too hot. Just perfect. Although it would be nicer if you were in the bath with me. I’d like to ask you that but my lips are still sealed, for some reason.

Mrs. Hudson said that her sister is retiring to Sussex. It seems nice, from what Mrs. Hudson said. Would you like to live there with me when we’re old and gray? We could even get one of those houses where the doors are big enough for the wheelchair to pass so that would be easier for you. You won’t be able to carry me all your life, Sherlock.

But I know you’ll never leave London. You like it better, here – more than Sussex and me, anyway.

 

* * *

 

 

**Sherlock's notebook, February 22 nd**

 

15:00/15:45 – bath time. Each time I make you take your bath it hurts me. I don’t know if the water is too hot or too cold for you and you can’t even tell me. If I estimate correctly, you like it 3 degrees colder than I do, so I’m trying to set it right for you.

Your wounds are actually improving and the bruises are slowly going away but each time I see your back, John, my head hurts. And I know it’s stupid because I’m not being rational about this. Somehow I can’t be. Even if I know I’m not making any sense in my own damn mind.

I was thinking about how we ended up both in that tiny bathroom but at the same time neither of us were really there. I suddenly had this very real image of us both sharing a bath and actually being happy (something I used to imagine all those years ago when things were much simpler). Look at us now and tell me where did it go wrong?

Now it’s too late. I should have told you, before all of this happened, about the bath and us and hot water and happiness.

Now it’s too late and we’ll never know.

 

 

**Sherlock's notebook, February 24 th**

 

9:00 – ~~JW~~ you woke up.

9:15 – I put you in your ugly jumper. The one you really like. I guess it doesn’t look so bad after all.

9:30/10:30 – breakfast. Mrs. Hudson came around with morning tea.

10:45/13:30 – took you to the park and then to the grocery store since I don’t think we’ll be able to eternally live on Mrs. Hudson’s provisions. People were looking. I don’t care.

14:00/15:00 – dinner. Made your favourite.

15:00 – told you about another case I solved without having to leave the flat. The husband let out the cat an hour before the wife went missing and it proved that he was back home at that time. 'Was dead easy. I’m sure you were amazed by my deductions, as always.

19:05 – dinner. Talked about the first time we met. I laughed (it was a long time since I had a good laugh). Did you laugh too? I wonder. (and hope)

20:35 – watched the telly and corrected the stupid criminal show but you didn’t react.

22:00 – put you to bed.

23:00 – Greg called from a restaurant, apparently. He asked about you. It gave me an idea, actually.

 

 

**Sherlock's notebook, February 25 th**

 

8:30 – you woke up.

8:30/9:15 – bath time.

9:15/10:45 – breakfast.

11:30 – Molly came by. Took some of your bandages off. She said it is all healing nicely (of course it is, why wouldn’t it?). The casts are still staying for now, she said.

13:00/14:00 – lunch.

15:00 – explained the Dr. Weller case to Greg. I’ve been slow. I did not get that the medication actually induced a deep coma and that was a fatal mistake – I needed your help on this one, John, you could have saved ~~me~~ him.

21:07 – after dinner, I played the violin. It was the first time in ages. I played your favourite as you were sitting in the living room, but when I turned around you… John… you were crying.

And I knew, at that moment, I had never been so sure about anything else in my life – I knew you were still in there.

Somewhere.

 

* * *

 

 

**John's letter, February 25 th**

 

You’re playing the violin. Is it the first time since I got back home? I can’t remember. At least I’ve got something else to add to the pictures on my wall. It’s making the place a little more bearable, you know?

You play really well. Fuck, I don’t think I ever told you that – like so many other things. Do you forgive me? The music makes me wonder where we got it wrong. What was the point in the road that changed it forever? How long were we walking on it, not knowing that it was taking us in different directions?

I know what you would say.

I think it was even before that.

The road turned before the Fall, Sherlock – it did, maybe at the pool, or maybe even when the cabbie told you Moriarty’s name. Or was it the night before that, when we met for the first time? ( _that I don't regret Sherlock please believe me whatever happened I won't ever regret that-_ )

Or maybe all that was already written somewhere – just like I’m writing now – and the story would always end up with us, together, in Baker St. But if the end was already planned out, it’s the middle of the story that went wrong. It went terribly wrong, Sherlock, and I’m not sure we’ll get the happy ending we deserve. Maybe it was always meant to be like that.

 

Oh bloody hell, I’m starting to cry now. You’d say I’m awfully sentimental but I can’t help but wonder what we did wrong. What I did wrong – and there are many, many things. Sorry.

Wait, am I crying? Because my eyes feel wet – not in here, my real eyes, I mean. No, no no no no don’t stop playing. Are those your thumbs on my cheeks? I can barely feel anything. Come on, don’t bother, Sherlock, it’ll dry by itself.

 

Or maybe do. Come closer. Closer, closer, closer, closer. And maybe if you’re close enough I could lean in and kiss you.

 _If_ I could

 

 

**John's letter, February 26 th**

 

I wouldn’t even know where to start, Sherlock. I have so many things to say. I’m so sorry about her. It was a mistake. I should never have married her in the first place. I was terrified (about you). You hid away and got high, and I was stuck with her, miserable and loathing myself for it.

And then she shot you and took me away.

She did this to us. It’s her fault. It’s my fault too. But you’re the one stuck with me now and I’m sure you hate that too. Look at you – the great detective, Sherlock Holmes, caring for an old army doctor who’s nothing anymore. I know you’re bored. You like when everything goes fast, you love puzzles, solving things, deducing clients and crime scenes but now you’re stuck with me and I’m sure you hate it. You could live a normal life again, Sherlock. You don’t have to do this. You could have left me at the hospital, you know? They would have taken me to a facility and taken care of me. It’s not too late. You didn’t have to bring me back – not after everything I did to you.

Forgive me, Sherlock, please do.

 

* * *

 

 

**Sherlock's notebook, February 27 th**

 

I’ll find you, John. For the second time, but I’ll find you. Just like we found each other at Bart’s that first day. Just like I found you after I came back.

…

_Shit_

This must have been hell for you.

The thing is I thought it was for me too, John. I was convinced it was. But I knew I was coming back. You _didn't_. Yet when you were kidnapped I thought I was going to kill myself but the only thing preventing me from doing so was the hope that I would find you alive. When I was gone you didn’t know that I could be found. What if I came back and you

sorry sorry sorry I’m so sorry

I’m going to help you find your way back and when you do I’m going to apologize for everything, again and again and again until you don’t want to look at me anymore because I don’t deserve you I really don’t

sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry

 

* * *

 

**John's letter, February 27 th**

 

Talk to me, please?

 

* * *

  

**Sherlock's notebook, February 28 th**

 

Talk about a meltdown. The lack of sleep isn’t always helping my train of thoughts. Though we truly will have to talk, John, because there are so many things left unsaid. I know you’re here, I don’t really know if you can hear or see me, and I definitely don’t know if you can come back from where you’re from.

I feel like you’re still over there, in that hangar, even if your body is here at 221. I hope (silly, I know) that the day will come where we can have a conversation about everything we have and need to say to each other, the bad (there’s a lot of it) and the good (if there’s anything left of that).

But if you don’t… recover… well I guess there won’t be much to talk about with you. I just hope you already know.

 

**[Added later that day: ]**

We’ll be at the same table, of course. I’m sorry that this could not be a month ago but it’ll be tomorrow and it’ll be like old times.

Just you and me against the rest of the world.

 

  

**Sherlock's notebook, February 29 th**

23:15 – At first, I thought I hallucinated your voice. We made it to the park after Angelo’s, and I don’t know why but I thought you’d like it because it was definitely _romantic_. Something of that sort anyway. I was telling you stories about the weirdest cases we had, recalling some of the silly titles you put up on your blog, because you only could come up with those.

And then I started running.

I don’t know why. I wasn’t escaping; it felt more like if we were running away together. It felt good, running away from this reality, and I thought I could maybe find you in yours. Inexplicably.

(Isn’t it weird how love makes us do illogical things?)

At that moment I realized I was your transport too.

 

Then, as I said before, I thought most certainly that I was hallucinating from the lack of sleep. Or that it was the combination of wind and rain making up sounds in my ears. But when I looked at your face, for the first time, John, you were looking back at me.

I wanted to scream. Illogical, again. In the heavy rain, nobody would have heard me.

 

You said my name. You actually spoke. You said my name and you said that you

that you

that

John

I do too

I really do

If there’s one good thing in my life that I’ve done it must be that

So yes, I told you

 

I told you that I love you too, that I always have and always will, whatever happens, because we’ve been through hell and back and we deserve to be happy and together and just the two of us against the rest of the world. I truly think we do.

 

I kissed you.

It all made sense.

All the illogical things actually started making sense.

 

I don’t know if you’ve noticed (but this time I really can’t be sure), but I was crying and yet I was happy – that was highly irrational but I didn’t care anymore. I didn’t want to think. I wanted to feel. To feel everything.

(your lips against mine, how you tasted, to feel your skin, your hair, the rain, the wind)

I really wanted to scream.

 

We went back home, as you kept telling me that you loved me, and I didn’t care if you were not saying anything else because it is all that ever mattered. I carried you upstairs and for the first time I did not wonder if I was too close.

I made tea, yet I did not wonder about if it was too hot or too cold for you because I knew it was just right.

After that I started carrying you upstairs to your room, but you said my name and I knew what it meant, so I put you in one of my old pyjamas and in my bed instead.

Now you’re sleeping and I know everything will be all right.

 

23:58 – I think I will sleep, now.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**John's notebook, February 29 th**

 

Why are we moving?

You’re taking me back, aren’t you? Maybe you heard my thoughts the other day – I wish you didn’t, though, because I really don’t want to go back to the hospital. Shit. I can’t really blame you.

We’re moving again. Cab? Ambulance? I can’t tell. I hear you, though, you sound excited. I guess you’re entitled to since I won’t be of any trouble to you in a few minutes. Don’t shut up – I really want to memorize your voice before you leave. It’ll make me less lonely around here, I guess.

I’m not blaming you, by the way. I’m really not. I always knew it was a matter of time before you’d have enough and here we are. I loved and hated every second of it. And I love you and hate you at the same time I guess there’s no middle ground to my feelings for you. There never was. I’ve never been unsure, Sherlock, I’ve only been blind, and now I’m mute and I feel like the entire world was always against me. And soon you won’t even be here.

Oh, again in the wheelchair. You’ve carried me for a whole three seconds here. You’re still buying that expensive shampoo of yours, aren’t you? Please don’t move I want to remember the smell and add it to my silly wall. There it is.

Why aren’t you already gone? Why are you still talking?

Wait

is that

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Angelo?

 

Is that his voice? Sherlock? SHERLOCK?? ANSWER ME, BLOODY HELL. WHERE ARE WE?

No you didn’t.

Please say you didn’t.

 

Oh my God, we’re the 29th. Not of January, but still close enough. Hell... it's even a leap year (so it's exactly a month later and I know you don't believe in this but i'm sure it's the universe telling us something). You bloody idiot. I THOUGHT YOU WERE LEAVING ME BEHIND!?

Please say there’s a candle on the table. Please. Let there be one, or two, or three. Or a million and let this place burn to the ground until we are the only ones left.

The food is good. Isn’t it weird that you have to feed me at the restaurant? People will definitely look and talk. Oh, that’s right, we don’t care.

 

Are we moving again? Is it raining? Everything feels wet. I might fall ill because of you, doesn’t that bother you? I’m pretty sure we’re in a park now, going by the sound the wheelchair makes on the ground.

Okay, now we’re going faster. Are you running? What the actual fuck Sherlock, are you three years old? No, of course, you’re Sherlock Holmes-I-don’t-fucking-care-about-consequences. And now I’m laughing. I really shouldn’t encourage you at this point, for all I know I might fall off the chair in a moment. I’m laughing. I don’t know if I’m laughing over there but I’m laughing here and it’s the first time in ages that I laughed like that.

 

By the way,

 

you look bloody gorgeous in the rain.

 

Sherlock.

Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. You. look. bloody. gorgeous. in. the. rain.

I can see you.

I CAN FUCKING SEE YOU.

Oh god, oh god, oh god oh god I can see you can you see me I can, I can see you my hand is hurting I can’t write faster than that but please say that you can see me too

 

i’m here i’m here i’m here and I want to say it but my lips aren’t moving

 

I’M TRYING, OKAY?

please listen

please stop running and listen

why is the rain so fucking loud?

 

Sherlock

Sherlock

Sherlock

Sherlock

 

are you listening?

 

i love you

 

and i love the fact that i love you

 

can you hear me?

 

i do, i really really really do

i do, please listen

 

i love you

i love you

i love you

i love y

 

you are pretty close now

i can see my eyes in your eyes now

 

i love you?

did you hear me?

 

your lips are wet

they taste like salt and warm rain

 

wait a second, just a tiny second, so I can add this picture to the wall and then we can kiss again and again and

 

wait a second

where are the walls?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it! Since this is part of a series, I will add the rest of the story on here but it will probably not be in epistolary form.  
> I am weneedtotalkaboutsherlock on tumblr.


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